for three months in the fall of 1918 i served with the 1st canadian tanks. canada had two tank battalions organized late in the war. neither of them had the good fortune to get to france. the first was composed of volunteer recruits drawn largely from the universities of ontario and quebec, and they were a remarkably keen lot of soldiers. quite a number of the officers belonged to the faculties of these colleges and many of the men were graduates or undergraduates.
after arrival from canada they were under canvas for a week or two at rhyll in wales, but soon moved into permanent quarters on the bovington farm in dorset county. bovington was a great tank camp. a number of imperial tank units along with ours were located there for training, with large machine-shops and many auxiliary units. the country immediately around the huts swarmed with soldiers and "herds" of noisy tanks.
i joined the battalion for duty about mid-august and stayed with them until after the armistice. those were very happy weeks. everyone was good to me. besides i had just come from the turmoil of france, and the quaint, quiet, pastoral beauty of dorset seemed a haven of peace. i had pleasant times in camp. then there were exhilarating walks to take with my good friends, somerville, smith, macfarlane, bobbie kerr and others, over the downs through miles of purple heather, and along deep hedge-lined country roads to some old-fashioned thatch-roofed village, where we would have tea and a rest before returning. or of a morning we would walk down the six miles to lulworth cove on the coast, three miles of our journey between hedges of giant rhododendron, with the limbs of oak, pine and beech trees forming a leafy arch over our heads. at the cove hotel we would enjoy one of their famous boiled-lobster dinners, with potatoes, water-cress and lettuce, and a rice-custard dessert. dorset, too, is a country filled with stirring, historic association recalling frequent battles fought against sea-borne invaders, and many also were the smugglers' stories we heard of this shore so near to france and so filled with coves and caves. there is romance as well as adventure. thomas hardy found inspiration in the dorset folklore for his masterpiece, "tess of the d'urbervilles." the most imposing castle-ruin i have seen is there, corfe castle, visible for miles against the sky. it recalls fierce attack and prolonged siege in the days of cavalier and roundhead.
by the beginning of november the battalion was through its training, taking in its written examinations the highest marks in the camp. soon after came the eagerly-awaited order to mobilize for france. in a few days we had our lorries parked, our kits ready, our fighting "colors" up on our tunics, and our final letters from england sent off home. the day was set, i think nov. 14th, for our embarkation at a channel port for france.
they would have done great deeds in battle these fine bright lads, but they were not to be given the opportunity. nov. 11th, 1918, was a dismal day for the canadian tank corps. at eleven o'clock the order, "cease fire," sounded along our whole line in france and the armistice emerged into history, blasting their hopes of active service. on a sunday following i had to preach a sermon of rejoicing to the battalion. it was a parade service so that i had a congregation of 900 men who gave me a perfect hearing, but all the same the sermon was a failure. i knew it would be even if i had been eloquent, and in my heart i was glad that these canadian boys could not rejoice with me. they were disgusted with their fate. another day or two and they would have got to france, and that would have been something, even if they hadn't been fortunate enough to get into battle.
from their standpoint it was no occasion for hilarity. they fired no guns, they beat no drums, and generally were a very gloomy-looking lot of fellows. i am enough of a barbarian to like them all the better for it. later in the week i tried to relieve the situation a little for some of them by telling in the rest-hut one evening what i knew of the naming of one of the famous klondike creeks.
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there is a well-known creek in the north called last chance and i shall try to tell you something of its story. it may help you to feel that while you missed the real fighting in france there's still lots of chance of adventure in life for you all. last chance is a tributary of hunker creek, fifteen miles in the hills back of dawson. in the rush days a road-house was put up there and named after the creek. later it was assumed that the creek had got its name from the road-house, and this had been so named because it was the "last chance to get a drink" outward bound on that trail. but here's the real story.
"old yank" was the man who gave the creek its name. he was a gambler of that kind who go out into the wilds among giant mountain-peaks, and in far-off, unnamed valleys alone with their pick-axe, shovel, and gold-pan stake their lives on the chance that there is gold in rock or gravel. who can quarrel with such gambling? there are no marked cards in that game. if they win they win clean, and if they lose, well they've lived a glorious, free life filled with health, hope, and work without a master, and the companionship of a few choice friends.
the old man had come to the time when he knew that shortly his prospecting days would be ended. then he would land in some old man's home unless he could make a clean-up soon and have enough to save him from that baleful finish. he had made several "stakes" when he was younger in the southern mountains, but he had either thrown his wealth away in the purchase or development of worthless claims, on further prospecting expeditions, or had lost it in a gold camp where he had been fleeced by some of the various kinds of human vultures which always flocked to the gold-diggings, when they proved rich, to prey upon the miners.
he told me a story of how once in the early days in the caribou he was sitting in a card game with a number of strangers. he had lost half his spring clean-up to them when the police raided the road-house and took them all "in" to stand trial before judge begbie. begbie was a man noted for his swift, stern methods and his keen penetration in court. he didn't interfere with what he called "square" card gambling among a group of miners, but he was a terror to the professional card-sharper. next day every man pleaded that he was a working miner and had just come in from the hills. where all were dressed alike in rough clothes it seemed impossible to decide who were telling the truth. begbie never hesitated. "show me the palms of your hands," he said, and the constable made them line up with their hands held up, palms out. the judge inspected them rapidly, ordered two men detained and dismissed the others. those released had callouses on their hands that you can get only by the use of pick and shovel. the two detained, questioned, and sent to penitentiary in new westminster were soft-handed.
when i first met yank the sinews of his right hand were so drawn up and stiffened by the jar of the pick through years of work that he could not open his hand. the way he got his fingers around the pick-handle was by shoving the end of it in with his left hand through the curve of thumb and forefinger on his right.
he was busy prospecting in a valley near the klondike at the time those wonderful gold-fields were discovered. he was only a divide or two away. a squaw-man passing with three indians on his way to the mouth of the klondike to fish salmon had stopped a day with him. he advised the man to "pan" here and there, where there was rim-rock showing, as they went along in the creek-bottoms. he himself was getting light prospects and it might be better closer in to the klondike basin. he asked and was promised that, if they struck anything good, one of them would come back and let him know. they followed his advice and found rich pay on rabbit creek, but they failed to keep their promise to the old man whose advice had so enriched them. yank never knew of the klondike stampede, until the next year when two strangers, who had got lost, wandered into his valley and told him the amazing news. he put on his pack and left forthwith but he was too late. hundreds of men from stewart and forty-mile were now located on the best ground and the stream of stampeding "cheechacos" from the outside world was already commencing to flood in. there was nothing left that he thought worth staking. he crossed the ridge from rabbit creek, (now called bonanza), with a heavy heart, heading back to his lonely cabin. off the divide he came into a narrow gulch which he followed. it widened into a good-sized valley. he was surprised as he went along to see neither cabins nor claim-stakes. he travelled its whole length indeed and found none. although right in the rich region it had been overlooked. when he got to the mouth of the gulch he saw why, in those first days of hurried staking it had been left untouched, for the valley narrowed into a very small opening where it entered the larger hunker creek. the stampeders passing up and down hunker would rarely see the scarcely noticeable break in the hills hidden by the trees, or if they saw it would not think it worth exploring. he lost no time in going back up the creek to the wider part. there he put down a hole near the rim where it was only a few feet to bed-rock and found excellent prospects. he now set about staking discovery claim. with his axe he cut, about five feet from the ground, a smooth four-inch face on four sides of a small tree in the centre of the valley, and then pencilled on the down-stream side this inscription, "no. 1 post. discovery claim. i, joe. chronister, claim fifteen hundred feet down-stream, and from base to base, for placer mining purposes," signed his name with date and hour, and the number of his miner's certificate. then he stepped off five hundred paces roughly downstream through the brush and then "blazed" his second tree as before, marking it, "no. 2 post, discovery claim," and writing as on no. 1, with "down-stream" changed to "up-stream."
he camped that night on his claim, and before he lay down on his spruce-bough bed to sleep, he sat awhile by the dying fire dreaming old dreams again. perhaps this time it would be very rich; it prospected fine but "prospects" were only prospects. "well," he mused, "old-timer, you're near the end of the game. if there's nothing good under the muck here it will be 'over the hill to the poorhouse' for you. it's your last chance, last chance."
it was with this thought running through his mind that next day he entered the recording office in dawson, with his good friend the stalwart capt. jim mcleod at his side to see that he got square treatment, and recorded discovery on his creek which was named on the government records, "last chance," at his request.
it is good to know that yank's claim was rich. providence had been kind to the old man. he saved his clean-ups and lived in comfort the rest of his days in a snug log-cabin in dawson, near the wild waters of the turbulent klondike, where they rush into the depths of the mighty yukon.
